


Running On

by the_ragnarok



Series: Happy Endings [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur gets out of a bad situation and into a nice suit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running On

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Anatsuno, who is a goddess among fangirls.

Arthur stares at his closet, thoughtfully. "What should I pack?"

Eames materializes at his side. "Whatever you like. We'll be getting you new clothes anyway." He tugs at the hem of Arthur's t-shirt. "Much as I like you like this, it hardly screams _professional_ , does it?"

Arthur nods and packs a single change of clothes into his bag. In addition to that he grabs a coat, a roll of electric tape, his multi-tool and a lighter.

"You smoke?" Eames says with a hint of surprise.

"Hm? No." Arthur scans the room, slightly distracted. There's something important he's forgetting. Then he realizes what it is and laughs a little to himself.

There's absolutely no reason for him to grab his pocket calculator as well, but it makes him feel obscurely comforted. Besides, it's not going to hurt and might come in handy. Why not?

"Do you have a laptop?" Eames asks. Arthur shakes his head. "We'll get you one on the way, then. Oh, and if you have an iPod or a book you've been reading, take those. You'll have a lot of boring hours to do away with on the road."

Arthur's been forcing himself through _Gormenghast_ , and boring as the road might be, he can't imagine it being worse. "Can we stop for a book, too?" He already knows everything else he owns cover-to-cover; he's bought _Gormenghast_ mostly out of price-per-word considerations.

Eames kisses his shoulder. "We can do anything you want."

"Then let's go blow up city hall." He smiles at Eames' alarmed expression. "Kidding. We can do that later, once I'm more used to the criminal lifestyle."

"What have I wrought," Eames mutters, but he kisses Arthur, slow and warm like they really _can_ do anything they want.

And within reason, why can't they?

Arthur steps back and looks at his bag. "I'm packed. We're going."

~~

As it turns out, Eames' taste in music is atrocious.

"Ugh, turn that _down_ ," Arthur says, and tries to switch the channel.

Eames, the careless dick, takes one hand off the wheel to bat Arthur's hand away. "Driver chooses the music," he says loftily. "To suggest otherwise is to pervert the natural order of things."

Arthur reins in a few choice words about perversion. It's harder than it should be, but then his ass is still a bit sore. For a change of subject, he says, "So, _now_ are you going to tell me where we're going?"

"All in good time," Eames says, same as he did just before herding Arthur into the car.

This does not, in Arthur's opinion, deserve an answer, so he looks out the window instead. Thinking.

Lists are a hard habit to get out of, and Arthur's going over the ones he has in his head, sorting them into useless (most of them) and useful (sadly few).

Among the useless are his shopping list ("Can't cook much on the road," Eames said), his list of small chores (clean, do the laundry, renew the massage oil supplies) and the ever-growing of things he's not allowed to have, which has diminished rapidly in the last few hours (Eames had promised him, in this order: excellent coffee, lovely new clothes, as much sex as he could stand and – should he still want it – the drink Eames had stiffed Arthur on, that bastard).

On the useful side are his list of things to do for class (he might be leaving his degree behind, that doesn't mean he wants to let his mind fall in ruins) and the list of things he needs – nay, wants – and should get. Seeing as there's a cup of cold-brewed yauco in Arthur's hand, the next item on that list should probably be something to wear.

Half an hour later, Eames parks and drags Arthur into a store where all the mannequins wear ties. Being correct pleases Arthur, and he pulls Eames into a short kiss before they walk in.

Eames touches a finger to Arthur's lips, smiling. "Don't tempt me, darling," he says, looking at Arthur warmly. "Not when I'm about to see you all dressed up and unbearably smug about it. I will either ravish you in public or terribly embarrass myself."

Arthur considers this. "I like you embarrassed," he decides, and walks in.

The store is huge, and to Arthur's estimate, nothing in it costs less than his (former) average monthly earnings. Not even the belts. Arthur looks at a price sticker, winces and thinks, _make that_ especially _not the belts_.

Eames is suddenly right behind him, a warm, large presence. "Anything you want, we can afford," Eames says, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Consider it a loan if you'd rather not feel as though you're living off me. You'll be able to pay it back soon enough." He pauses. "Although for the sake of complete disclosure, I should mention that I'd do far more than pay money to see you dressed properly."

Which is precisely the reason Arthur means to pay him back as soon as he can. It's not that he objects to Eames lusting after him (for the record: he really, really doesn't), but having it framed as if Eames needs to spend money to earn Arthur's permission is not in the least acceptable. However, "That's not the problem," Arthur says.

"Oh?" Eames says. He's standing beside Arthur now, so Arthur can see him tilting his head quizzically.

"It's just." Arthur touches a jacket in a way that he refuses to think of as _caressing_. Arthur likes the idea of a suit, the look of it, always has. The feel of soft, high-quality fabric beneath his hands make him happy in a quiet, intense way. But. "I don't think I've got the right build for any of this," Arthur says, not the least bit wistful.

Okay, maybe a tiny bit, because here is Eames, standing there with shoulders like an ode to male physique, and Arthur's not bad-looking nor self conscious, but he's not blind and he's got a mirror, thanks.

Eames is looking at him strangely. "Arthur, how often have you worn suits?"

"Not very," Arthur says, succinctly. At Eames' annoyingly patient look, he adds, "Sometimes my mom took me to embassy events, back when it was relevant."

"Rented tuxes?" Eames says, eyebrows raised.

"Borrowed," Arthur says, and damn it, he is not going to blush.

"Ah," Eames says. "By which you mean, borrowed from the least massive of her employees, who was still a sight larger than a teenager?"

Arthur glares at him, because it's not like he fails to understand the concept of clothes _fitting_. Still. "It's about proportions. You need to – "

"No, I'm afraid I must stop you right there," Eames says, "you're quite wrong, you see. It's about making whatever proportions you have look better." He looks Arthur up and down, slow, appreciative. "And yours, darling, are quite magnificent as they are."

He puts a hand on Arthur's mouth, gentle enough that Arthur refrains from biting him. "Trust me for a moment, hm? Let me dress you and, if you're not absolutely satisfied, well," this with a leer, "I'm sure I can think of some other way to meet your exacting requirements."

Arthur does bite his hand then, just a little, to show willingness.

He trails after Eames, then, stopping to get distracted every so often. Eames has to practically drag him away from a display of cufflinks.

"Later, darling, I promise," Eames says. "First, clothes."

~~

Arthur's staring at himself in the mirror, skeptic.

It looks good, he has to admit. Not as good as a suit ought to look on a person, not as good as, say, Eames had looked when he took Arthur to that party, but not at all bad.

"Mr. Eames," Arthur says, turning around with a slight _swish_ of fabric as the lining of his jacket rubs against his shirt, "I am impressed."

Eames laughs softly. "Oh, love, you've seen nothing yet."

So Arthur takes off his jacket and allows Eames to step behind him, to pinch away folds of fabric with a bunch of pins he procured seemingly out of nowhere. He tucks bits away and moves them, eying Arthur critically in the mirror after each change.

"Didn't know you were a tailor," Arthur says, mostly because he's a bit discomfited by the way Eames is looking at him. The leering had almost been better.

"Oh, it pays to know a little of everything," Eames says absently. "Turn around, I want a look at your front." It's a sad day when Eames can take a statement like that and _not_ make it sound filthy.

Except then he says, "All right, done," and gets up, and Arthur looks himself in the mirror and can't look away.

This. _This_ is what a suit should look like. He's chosen the items from the piles Eames had handed him almost at random, because he liked the color. The jacket, the pants and his tie are a light gray, very slightly shiny, just understated enough to make Arthur happy. The shirt is black.

It makes Arthur look like an adult. Hell, with his hair at this length, it makes him look like a fashion model.

Eames waves something for Arthur's attention. Arthur frowns at it. It's dark red and, honestly, no.

"Eames,"Arthur says, "I am not a character from Alice in Wonderland. I'm not wearing a waistcoat."

"...And a watch," Eames completes without apparently even thinking about it. "Try it on. I assure you, Arthur, you won't look the least bit rabbit-like."

Arthur rolls his eyes. He's a bit weirded out by how much he likes looking at himself like this, actually, so he takes the jacket off again and lets Eames button him into the waistcoat. Which is....

Surprisingly nice, actually, feeling the slightly stiff fabric close over him. When Eames finishes with the last button Arthur's feeling held together, restrained and comforted, and it's frankly a little scary how much he likes that.

He can't help the curve of his mouth, can't help from smoothing his hands down over his own torso.

"Like that, do you?" Eames says in a low voice. "I knew you would."

Sad, sad day indeed, because Arthur can't even muster up a _fuck you_. He looks at himself in the mirror, instead.

 _Eames was right_ , Arthur thinks distantly. _It does look better_. But that's entirely secondary to how right this _feels_ , the fit of cloth around him, moving with him and keeping him still at the same time.

"When we get to the hotel," Arthur says in a quiet, calm voice, "you are going to take all of this off me, tie me to the bedpost and fuck my brains out."

Eames swallows, and Arthur smiles in something a little like victory.

They end up with five new sets – four for Arthur and one for Eames, who apparently can't resist an opportunity to spend money on shit he doesn't need. Everything but the gray suit Arthur tried out first goes to tailoring, Eames' expertly-stuck pins still in place.

The store sits at the edge of the kind of outdoors mall that's too large to navigate by foot. Eames drops Arthur off at a book store and asks if he has any specific requirements for his computer.

"Depends on what you'll need me to do," Arthur says. "And by the way, I still have no idea what that might be."

Eames frowns at this, thoughtful. "To be honest, I haven't thought it through yet. Oh, don't be worried," he says at Arthur's alarmed expression. "There's always something for a smart, quick man. We'll find you a job or we'll make you one, it'll be fine." He shifts on his feet. "So I'll get you something not too shabby, yeah? Make sure it stands up to some rough handling."

"I'll show you rough handling," Arthur mutters, smiling a little.

"That's the spirit," Eames says, approving, and drives away.

Arthur is efficient. He's never thought of that as a disadvantage before, but then again, he never had to wait for anyone outside a shop front because he finished his shopping in five minutes. Eames did sound mildly disbelieving when Arthur called him to inform him of this. It could have been worse. At least he's got something to read.

Yet even as Arthur cracks open _A Sniper in Winter: A Military History of Finland_ \-- he can buy books in hardcover now, and if that's not a luxury he doesn't know what is -- he can't help but drift into thoughts, instead.

For one thing, how he really likes the fucking suit. Arthur looks down a little, shamelessly checking himself out. He's never cared much about looks before, and if he thinks about it, he still doesn't now.

It would actually be less embarrassing to discover a heretofore unknown vanity than the fact that the suit makes him feel, in an odd way, safe. It's not that he was afraid before. Or, to be exact, it's not that he knew he was afraid, before.

A number of people have called Arthur fearless. That isn't true. Arthur simply has a (sometimes troubling) tendency not to realize he's afraid until the moment passes and he thinks back: I was in danger. That could have ended badly. Now that he looks like a grown man, like a professional, it's clear how high-risk everything has been before. If Eames should have abandoned him, what, exactly, would have Arthur done next?

(It's not that he thinks Eames would. It's just that Eames leads a dangerous life. Suppose the next assassin wasn't so careless? Suppose Eames got ran over by a truck? Suppose an asteroid hit him?)

(Asteroids play a large part in Arthur's paranoid scenarios.)

Now, should anything happen, Arthur isn't a kid with dubious vocational choices. He is an adult with marketable skills. He can go into a job interview with his suit on and be taken seriously. And if, six months down the line, his previous life catches up with him – well, it's not like there's anything he didn't already leave behind at least once.

Nothing but Eames, that is. Arthur finds himself remarkably reluctant to leave Eames behind. But since this is a postponed reaction, panic-induced scenario where Eames is – for reasons that may or may not include vengeful astronomy – not available... That's not a line of thought, however, that Arthur enjoys dwelling on. At all. He cracks his book instead, determined, and grimly reads about Simo Häyhä until Eames pulls over.

"Got me anything?" Eames asks, cheeky bastard that he is.

"I don't even know what you like," Arthur says, batting Eames' hands away from where they're trying to grab the bag with his books.

"Feel free to go through my suitcase again later," Eames says, and now the leer is back in full strength. "You may like what you find. But what have we here?" He goes through the bag. "Military history, something called _A Boy and His Tank_ , oh dear, and _The Wasteland_."

"You don't look surprised," Arthur says, putting the books back and buckling his seat belt.

"I don't think I can be, anymore," Eames says, wry, as he pulls out of the driving lot. "I've used up my entire quotient of being-surprised-by-Arthur for this week. Feel free to take advantage of it now – go ahead, tell me that your gran was a princess of Mars, that you're descended from ancient Sumerian deities. Anything, now is the time."

Arthur considers this seriously. The only thing he comes up with is, "I can run a mean SQL query."

"Splendid," Eames says, "I have absolutely no idea what that means, but I'm sure it's useful." His eyes are actually focused on the road for once, but he's smiling at Arthur all the same.

~~

They stop for the night at a roadside motel. Eames laughs a little when Arthur wrinkles his nose at it. "You've paid rent for worse," he says, trying to ruffle Arthur's hair. Arthur's too busy fighting him off to argue. "We can afford better, but it pays to keep a low profile."

"You keep saying 'we'," Arthur says. "If you've opened a joint account for us or something, now's the time to tell me."

Only when Eames freezes does Arthur realize that he might have taken it as something other than a joke.

"Shit, sorry," Arthur mumbles. "I didn't mean to – you know I don't expect – "

"Er," Eames says, and that's not a good beginning for _any_ sentence. "It's just that I may have done, ah, exactly that."

Arthur looks at him, slow and still. "Did you."

"Yes." Eames fidgets. "And also, I, er, may have been working on –" Eames bends to rummage in his bag. At length, he pulls out some papers and shows them to Arthur.

Arthur blinks at the page, slowly. The header says "Province of Ontario". Arthur's eyes, well-trained in hunting through the small print from more than a year of leaping bureaucratic hurdles, are drawn to the words _holy state of matrimony_.

And, of course, his own name, two lines above one of the names he recognizes from Eames' passports.

"It's still a work in progress," Eames says. "Marriage licenses aren't that hard to forge, mind you, but only the best for us." He looks at Arthur and hastens to add, "Purely for business reasons!"

"Business reasons," Arthur says. "Really?"

Visibly, Eames deflates. "No."

Arthur allows the smile he's been hiding to show. "Good."

~~

Once they've checked in, Arthur takes Eames up on his offer and goes rooting through his travel bag.

" _Pride and Prejudice_?" Arthur says, holding up the offensive item. "Really?"

"Look further," Eames says, nose deep in a newspaper. "There may be something of interest."

The next thing Arthur comes across is a copy of _Lost Girls_ , which is really nothing more than he should have expected. Still, he pauses to open it, lingering over some of the pictures. He wonders if he can find out, by the relative wearing out of pages, what Eames might like, or maybe some interesting things to try out.

"That's not it, either," Eames says without looking, but not without amusement. "I can hear your breathing change, you know."

Arthur mutters a _humph!_ to himself and goes on. Clothes, chapstick, bottle of water, cock-ring (Arthur chuckles a bit at that), iPod, and –

"Eames?" he says, holding up a roll of ribbon. "What do you have this for?"

Eames finally looks up. "Now, darling, I didn't ask you what you wanted a lighter for, did I?" But by the look on Eames' face, he wants Arthur to ask.

"Lighter's a useful thing to have." Arthur gets up and tosses the ribbon to Eames. "Well?"

"So is a ribbon," Eames says. "One can use it to alter an outfit, to add a dash of color to anything, and of course," Eames' smile widens, baring just a little flash of teeth, "one can use it to tie things up."

Arthur blinks. "I have a feeling you did not have that in your bag this morning."

"Wisely thought." Eames tosses him the roll back. Arthur catches it instinctively. "As it happens, while I was waiting for an acquaintance of mine to start the template for that paper I showed you earlier, I had just enough time to make – as it were – some impulse purchases."

Arthur examines the ribbon. It's dark red and soft, probably satin. "You really like this color."

"It's lovely on you." Eames holds up a measure of ribbon against Arthur's throat, evidently pleased with what he sees. "Such a contrast. Now if you do not mind," Eames says, setting it down, "I believe you mentioned me peeling this outfit off you, yes?"

"Sounds reasonable," Arthur says, heedless of the slight catch in his voice.

He's already down to his shirt-sleeves. Eames' hands are quick on the buttons, quicker than Arthur's would have been, so Arthur chooses to delegate the shirt to him and works on unbuckling his own belt.

Between the two of them, it's less than five minutes before Arthur's completely naked. He raises expectant eyes to Eames, who grins and shoves off his shirt, his pants. What his present movements lack in grace, they make up for with enthusiasm.

Eames straightens and looks at Arthur, soft and fond. "Yeah?" he says, holding up the ribbon.

Arthur, by way of assent, lies down on the bed, crossing his arms above his head.

Unexpectedly, this makes Eames frown. "Perhaps you can kneel up, love?"

"I can do that," Arthur says, agreeable. As he moves, Eames comes to stand behind him, placing bracing hands on his shoulders.

"I want to try something," Eames says. "Tell me if you don't like it."

Arthur tilts his head: go on.

Eames winds the ribbon around Arthur's wrists, but rather than tying them together he goes on to loop the ribbon around Arthur's waist and back over his upper arms.

Then he pulls, and Arthur lets out a breath with maybe more noise than he'd intended.

"Too tight?" Eames asks.

"It's fine," Arthur says. All right, maybe he's a little breathless, that's no reason for Eames to smirk at him like that.

Eames repeats this process – wind, loop, pull – all the way up his torso until Arthur's cocooned in some kind of weave, held like an insect in a spider net.

"All right." Eames kisses the top of Arthur's spine and ties up the ribbon, secure. "Now wriggle a little."

"Wriggling's undignified," Arthur complains, but he does it anyway.

The ribbon holds in place, holds Arthur as he moves, and he can't help from squirming slightly more than is really necessary. The fabric is soft against his skin, sweet friction where it's rubbing against his nipples.

"Yeah," Eames says quietly, putting a hand against Arthur's cheek. Arthur looks down at him, through his eyelashes. (His eyes have slid half-shut. When did that happen?)

Eames' cock is hard and red, gorgeous. "I think I want to suck you now," Arthur says.

(This soft, hoarse sound – is that really Arthur's voice? It doesn't sound anything like him.)

"Okay," Eames says, and Arthur is gratified that he doesn't sound much like himself either.

Eames shifts Arthur, helping him to sit somewhat against the headboard, and half-kneels over him. It looks awkward, and Arthur frowns. "Maybe I should lie down."

"No, it's good like this." Eames maneuvers until his crotch is at a convenient height, then he puts a hand behind Arthur's head, drawing him forward.

Arthur opens his mouth and closes his eyes, and lets Eames take the lead.

He didn't planned for this at all, which means he had no expectations as to how this – being tied up, sucking Eames' cock – should go. He's pretty sure, though, that one thing he wouldn't have foreseen is how patient Eames is.

Eames is slow, from his side probably excruciatingly slow, his cock sliding over Arthur's lips so that Arthur can memorize every tiny bit of skin, all the variances of taste and texture.

There's the briefest moment of panic and disorientation. Arthur tenses, straining back against himself –

And he's held back, kept forcibly calm by the restraints around him. This is Eames. It's okay.

He feels his body going lax, giving into gravity until Eames' hand at his shoulder is all that's holding him from melting into the bed in a puddle. With his other hand, Eames touches the back of his head – not grabbing or pulling, just running his fingers through Arthur's hair.

Arthur makes a small sound and Eames shoves the tiniest bit forward, choking on a breath. Arthur smiles a little and sucks, taking Eames in until he can feel him in the back of his throat. When Eames tries to move Arthur growls at him, a wordless _stay put_ that Eames seems to parse without difficulty.

He licks, then, letting Eames' cock go a little then taking it back in, tightening his lips around it. He's making small, low sounds, dark and appreciative. Eames keeps blessedly still until Arthur licks him just below the head.

Eames swears. Arthur laughs as he pulls free from his mouth.

"I don't know who the hell told you you're bad at this," Eames says, fervently, "but they were lying through their teeth."

Eames' eyes are closed, his breathing is shallow. Arthur half wants to explain that no, he's just been uninspired, but talking would take too much energy that he would prefer to dedicate to sex. He makes a plaintive noise instead, and Eames, smiling, guides his cock back to where Arthur wants it.

"All right, enough," Eames says after – some time has passed. Arthur hasn't exactly been paying attention.

Arthur only pouts momentarily when Eames pulls away. At Eames' intent look, he spreads his legs.

Sadly, he can't stop from hissing when Eames rubs a finger across his hole, gentle and exploratory. "Still sore?" Eames sounds sympathetic. Arthur decides he likes Eames better when he's not thinking. "All right, let's try it like this."

At Eames' urging, and with some assistance from him, Arthur lies on his side. Eames comes to lie behind him, lifting Arthur's leg up, and Arthur hisses again – this time in surprise – when he feels something cold touch the inside of his thigh.

"You'll love this," Eames says, and his voice is definitely promising. He kisses the side of Arthur's neck and slicks up Arthur's other thigh. Then he lets go of Arthur's leg and shoves his cock between Arthur's thighs, just below his crotch.

"Can't last," Eames says, and if the speed at which he's driving himself between Arthur's legs is any indicator, he's 100% correct. Arthur obliges him by closing his legs tighter.

Eames tenses and shouts, grabbing Arthur's shoulder with enough strength to leave a bruise. He collapses onto Arthur, and Arthur's vaguely wondering about his own orgasm when Eames raises his head.

"Well, that's me taken care of," he mutters. "And what shall I do with you?"

Arthur hums something noncommittal. He's already given up on keeping his eyes open. If he opens his mouth now, he has no idea of what might come out. Talking is too much of an effort, anyway.

"Well, if you're so indecisive, I'll please myself," Eames says. He moves Arthur to lie on his back and kneels over him. He licks his own come off Arthur's thighs, murmuring into his skin. Arthur can feel Eames' smile pressed into his upper legs.

Arthur's lying on his arms now, which is uncomfortable but not enough that he actually wants to move. Not, that is, until Eames sucks him in, at which point Arthur's back arches and he shoots into Eames' mouth with a single, shocked, "Oh."

Eames swallows him down, nurses at him until the last shudders have passed.

Arthur blinks at the ceiling for a second. He feels like he just woke up. He feels like he wants to sleep for a week. He feels tongue-tied, and, yeah, just generally all-around tied.

He squirms a little, in the hopes Eames will get the idea. His mouth doesn't seem to be working right. Luckily, Eames proves understanding and loosens his knot open, slowly unwinding the ribbon from around Arthur and spooling it back into a neat coil.

"So I'll put this down as a success, hm?" Eames pushes the hair back from Arthur's forehead. Arthur closes his eyes and raises his head, just a little, into the touch.

"I'll consider this a yes," Eames whispers into Arthur's ear.

Arthur can't remember replying to this. He's also pretty sure he falls asleep before Eames turns off the lights.

*

They're sitting down for lunch when the gunfire starts again.

Eames curses, upends the table and shoves Arthur under it. Arthur's a little annoyed at that, but he's letting it go for now; his experience is all theoretical, after all, and he trusts Eames to know what he's doing.

He's not sure that he trusts Eames not to get himself _shot_ , however, so he crawls a short way away in order to have a look.

Eames has ducked under the bar to return fire, but at the moment neither he nor their assailant have a clear line of sight.

Arthur's debating the idea of throwing a shoe at the assassin to create a distraction when Eames looks up sharply, aims above the guy's head and sends a potted fern hanging from the ceiling crashing down on him.

(That fern totally had it coming. Arthur's pretty sure it attempted to strangle him when they made their way inside.)

Then Eames is right next to Arthur, helping him up and tugging at his hand so they're running out of the restaurant. 

"You really have a problem with paying the bill, don't you," Arthur says once they're both sitting in the car and he's caught his breath a little. 

Eames starts the engine and doesn't answer until they're on the road, doing 20 above the speed limit. "Merest coincidence, I assure you." 

"Coincidence my ass," Arthur mutters, but secretly he thinks he's just resentful of how Eames doesn't sound even slightly winded. "Also, when I mentioned saving assassins for the third date, it wasn't supposed to be a _suggestion_."

"This can't be our third date," Eames says, frowning. "I'm sure I'm not the kind of person who proposes before the third date."

"Well, I don't remember an actual proposal," Arthur says. "So that sounds about right."

There's a comfortable silence that Arthur is almost sorry to break. He has to, though. This shit has gone on for long enough.

"Eames," he says. "I want to know what we're doing." 

If they're a _we_ now, well, that cuts both ways, doesn't it?

Eames sighs. He looks out the window and says nothing. After a minute, Arthur starts thinking that maybe Eames is actually ignoring him on purpose. He's about to raise hell on the subject, except Eames takes an exit and pulls over.

Arthur follows Eames out of the car, stands beside him as he pops the trunk open. "Know what this is?" Eames asks.

Arthur studies it. It looks like a shiny metal suitcase. "No."

"And," Eames says, a little sheepish, "neither do I. Or not exactly - I'm familiar with, hm, some of its less volatile uses."

"Which are?" Arthur's got his hands on his hips. He's not uncomfortable, precisely, but he's thinking about being uncomfortable, especially since he doesn't want Eames to say what Arthur thinks he's about to say.

"Dreaming," Eames says, and unless that's a euphemism, Arthur did not expect that.

At length, he blinks at Eames and says, "As in hallucinations, as in the stuff you do at night, or as in something I'm going to wish I didn't know about?"

Because thievery, yes, he can do that, and Arthur's reasonably sure he can kill a man in cold blood for a good enough reason. Drugs, though - he hasn't accounted for that. That is not something Arthur wants to be involved in.

"The second," Eames says. "For a given value thereof, anyway. Look, you're right to demand this conversation, but can it possibly wait until we're _not_ on the run?"

It's sheer cowardice that makes Arthur grateful to get back into the car, to leave this conversation where it is rather than follow where it might be going. 

But there does seem to be a pressing issue at hand, so as Arthur buckles up he asks, "How many people are after us?"

"As many as money could buy," Eames says, morose. "PASIV devices - such as the one I've just showed you - are not at all easy to find. Either they're in the paws of some unpleasant government official with big guns and a foul temper, or they're stashed in dream dens." Anticipating what Arthur means to say next, Eames says, "And I'd rather piss off a dozen of the former than one of the latter. They have _resources_."

Arthur takes this in. It might be some sort of drug arrangement. It probably is.

Oh, well. If that's the thing, Arthur will just have to reform Eames, possibly by making an honest man out of him. Although truthfully Arthur doesn't believe there's any way to get the dishonesty out of Eames that doesn't involve means on the scale of hydrochloric acid.

"Who did you steal it from?" Arthur asks, by way of distraction.

"Old friend," Eames says, swerving dangerously to avoid a rabid-looking motorcycle. "Former friend, now, in all likelihood." At Arthur's raised eyebrow he says, "Well, I didn't think she'd come after me with deadly force."

Arthur raises the other eyebrow as well.

"Or not this deadly, at least," Eames mumbles, and focuses back on the road.

They drive for a few miles more before something clicks in the back of Arthur's head. "What's in California, Eames?" It's more than half-hunch - more than three-quarters, if Arthur's honest, divined from the way they've been going and some statistical guesswork, and also, he's got a feeling.

"The biggest dream-sharing research community outside of the armed forces." Eames isn't letting his eyes off the road. Arthur would appreciate his sudden concern for their safety more if it wasn't so sudden, not to mention blatantly fake.

"Dream _sharing_." Arthur narrows his eyes, thinking.

"Well, don't ask me, because I don't know," Eames says, snappish all at once. Arthur turns to look at him; Eames' hands have tightened on the wheel, white-knuckled.

 _  
I've made him angry  
_  
, Arthur thinks, and there's something cold and frantic clawing at his gut, saying _fix this, and_ now.

He's gathering up the words to apologize - he doesn't even know what for, just that he's done wrong and Eames is angry and that can't be allowed to continue - when Eames takes a deep breath and says, "As far as I know it's just like lucid dreaming. Tried that?"

The question is a peace offering, and Arthur's a little taken back by it, unbalanced. "No," he says, cautious. "I never dream."

"No such thing," Eames says. "Everybody dreams. Only question is, do you _remember_."

Arthur half-shrugs, feeling deflated. "What do people do it for?"

"Why do people do anything?" Eames' voice is even. He takes a hand off the wheel and rests it on Arthur's thigh. "To forget. To let go. To have their hearts' desires."

Arthur should tell Eames to put both hands on the wheel. He puts his hand on top of Eames' instead. "Sounds redundant."

"Yeah." It's less a word than an exhalation. Eames does dart a glance at Arthur then, lips curving into the beginning of a smile. "Yeah."

~~

"So," Arthur says, a few hours later, when they've stopped for burgers and coffee. The coffee's crap, but Eames is starting to look wilted and Arthur needs caffeine if he's about to drive. "What are we going to do?"

Eames smiles at him. "Generally I just wait it out," he says. "Got a safe house or two, some new identities tucked away. Made a couple for you in advance, just in case."

"That's either creepy or romantic," Arthur says. "I'm voting creepy, just so you know." But he kisses Eames, because assumed identities are useful, and he firmly believes in rewarding competence.

"Since it appears that you enjoy creepy," Eames say, wry, "I'm not particularly bothered. However, we do need to finish our delivery before we can melt away into thin air." At Arthur's expectant look, he elaborates, "We are to arrive in L.A., deliver the device and accept payment."

Arthur leans back, slightly apprehensive. Joint checking account or not, "I didn't do anything for this job."

"Don't be ridiculous," Eames says with a wave of his hand. "Stopped the first attempt on my life this week, didn't you? I'll put it down as 'securing the delivery' and call it a day."

Arthur doesn't much like that Eames has to specify _this week_ , but he lets it go. "So how are we getting paid?"

Eames' smile widens. "Ah. That, darling, I am glad you asked. Half in cash, and half - " he pauses dramatically, "- in expertise."

Arthur makes a _go on_ gesture with his hand.

"I was hired for this job - via various proxies, never mind the tedious details -by a fellow named Dominic Cobb," Eames says. "Who would not like it known that he is in league with dirty tramps such as yours truly, since he is at the moment the most knowledgeable man in the field who _isn't_ wanted for something somewhere. So I managed to wrangle a promise out of him."

Arthur tilts his head. "He doesn't want to be seen with you, therefore he agreed to teach you?"

"I'm very persuasive," Eames says airily, then aims a cheeky grin at Arthur. "Convinced you to put up with me, didn't I?"

Arthur supposes he did.

"So once we get rid of our inconvenient followers, it's - as some might say -Miller time." Eames seems to consider this, then loses his grin. "How we do that, now, there's a question."

"I have an idea," Arthur says, and tries not to think _famous last words_ too hard, in case Eames hears it.

~~

"Risky," Eames says, which Arthur expected, because it is.

Eames' admiring look, now - that he did not expect, although why, he has no idea. He should, by now, be used to Eames' thing for violence and taking stupid chances.

Eames slips an unobtrusive hand into his and tugs him gently back towards the car. Arthur gets in the driver seat, and glares at Eames until he buckles his seat-belt.

"So we need to put ourselves somewhere highly visible," Arthur says. There's not too much traffic, this time of day. Nothing to distract him, much. "Where are we stopping next?"

"I'll tell you when we reach the exit," Eames says. Arthur directs a brief pointed look at him. Eames sighs. "I honestly don't remember the directions to tell you, love. I'll know it when I see it."

Arthur nods, looking straight ahead.

After a moment, Eames says, "Though if you want to back off - "

Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I knew what I was signing up for when I came along. What, did you think I imagined it was all stolen diamonds and fancy clothes?"

"'Course not." He hears Eames shifting in the seat besides him. "Terribly early, though," Eames says, soft. "I thought we'd have more time to ease you into it."

Arthur shrugs. "Gotta be a first time."

Unexpectedly, Eames laugh. "Hope this works out better than the last first time we had together."

Arthur bites back a grin and doesn't say _hey, that wasn't too bad, either_ , because Eames' ego needs no help from him.

~~

Arthur is sitting outside a diner. He almost regrets not being a smoker. That would have given him something to do with his hands.

Eames, as necessary to their plan, has left ("Got to speak to my mate," he said, with a wink, as he pulled out of the parking lot). Arthur is alone now.

It's strange how weird it feels not to have Eames around. They've only been together properly for - Arthur checks his watch - twenty-two hours now, as measured from their first kiss. He shouldn't even be used to Eames' presence yet, let alone to the point where being left on his own for an hour makes him anxious.

Then again, very possibly it's the purpose for being left alone that's gnawing at Arthur's nerves. Either that or the ill-concealed tension in Eames' shoulders as he drove away.

He sits there for half an hour, drinking even more bad coffee, conspicuously failing to read his book. Whenever there's a flash of movement behind him, Arthur restrains himself and does not turn his head, does not allow his spine to stiffen and his muscles to tense.

It's almost a relief, when it happens, to hear the heavy footsteps coming directly at him. Something crashes behind him. Arthur sees a brief flash of red, and then nothing at all.

~~

He comes to in a chair. Judging by the echos, he's in someplace big and empty -a warehouse, maybe. His hands are cold from cut-off circulation and his legs feel a bit numb.

Arthur opens his eyes, seriously starting to rethink this entire plan.

In particular, he's opposed to the goon aiming a gun to his head. That right there, in Arthur's opinion, is a bad sign. Especially since Eames did say, "She'll come in person once she's caught us, I'll talk to her, no worries."

It seems that Eames' former friend (and Arthur has his doubts about that friendship, frankly) has decided to outsource. This strikes Arthur as a wise decision, under the circumstances.

Unfortunately, it also strikes Arthur across the face, since Mr. Meathead is apparently all for backhanding prisoners.

Arthur's not scared anymore, if indeed he ever was. Arthur is, distantly, a little worried; they haven't planned for this. They're going to need to improvise, and he's unpleasantly caught by the realization that he has no idea how Eames might react to this shift in circumstances.

Mostly, though, Arthur is pissed.

"Oh, what's that?" says the goon. "Looks like your boyfriend decided to come for you after all." He clicks a button to open the door -a garage door remote, huh. Arthur takes note.

Garages tend to house useful things. Power tools and such. Gasoline. Imagining the possibilities contained by such items is far, far more pleasant than dwelling on the ugly emphasis Mr. Jerkface has put on the word 'boyfriend'.

Eames steps inside. Arthur can't see his face in the relative darkness, especially since one of his eyes is starting to swell up, but he knows Eames by his stride, and certainly by his voice when he says, "Here I am. Untie him, please."

The goon barks a laugh. "You're full of it, Eames." His voice is very nearly civil.

"Often and happily," Eames agrees. "Now cut the ropes, there's a good fellow. He's got nothing to do with this."

"Oh, so it wasn't him who gave Birmingham that knock on the head? I'll make sure to tell him that." The goon grabs Arthur by the hair. Arthur grits his teeth.

"Really, Cooper," Eames drawls. "'S not like you to begrudge a civilian a spot of self-defense."

"He's no goddamned civvy." Cooper's hand tightens, pulling Arthur's head backwards. "You know who his mother was? Miriam fuckin' Goldberg, that's who. Whoever put together that stupid 'masseuse' cover," Cooper makes air-quotes with the hand that isn't fisted in Arthur's hair, "oughta be shot, that's my professional fucking opinion. And now you're running around with him?"

"I don't see what his parentage has to do with this." Arthur can't actually see their faces, what with the dark and the swelling and the present angle of his head, but Eames' voice is carefully neutral.

"Don't you? Let me spell it out for you, then." Cooper yanks, and Arthur tries not to hiss. There are very few things he wouldn't give, right now, for the ability to kick Cooper in the face. "You're too hot for your own good, Eames. You thought maybe you could play both sides for a while, eh? Grab a pay and give us all to the feds. Or whoever your boy here belongs to."

For some reason, Arthur thinks this isn't going well. He tries to twist a little, not so much as to be noticed, just enough to catch Eames' eye, but he can't even shake his head at that last accusation.

"You've got it all wrong," Eames says, and Arthur notes with alarm that he's starting to sound a little rough, slightly frayed around the edges. Not good. "What does it bloody matter, anyway? You've got me, I won't be telling tales for a while."

Wonder of wonders, that gets Cooper to let go of Arthur (who very pointedly doesn't sigh in relief) and approach Eames, swaggering a little. "That's right," he says. "We've got you all to ourselves, Eamesie."

Something inside Arthur goes cold with fury at that tone.

Eames doesn't appear to have noticed. Eames is looking Cooper straight in the eyes, which hopefully will distract the goon from noticing that Eames' leg is shaking slightly.

"So you do," Eames says, steady again, and the undignified sound he makes when Cooper punches him in the stomach is loud enough to cover the noise of something dropping near Eames' foot.

Eames only stays doubled over for a few seconds before straightening and spitting, "Bastard," at Cooper.

"Proud of it," Cooper says, and punches Eames in the face.

Arthur is reminded of a picture from a book he read, a man being flayed alive. He imagines Cooper's face on that man, because save trying to shred his ropes by telekinesis, that's the only thing he can do right now.

Eames holds Cooper's gaze, eyes burning with rage, lip dripping blood. Cooper grabs Eames by the collar and hauls him up.

"You," Cooper says softly, "are pathetic."

"Am I," Eames says, and spits a bloody gob in Cooper's eye. While Cooper lets go to curse and wipe at his face, Eames kicks the thing he'd kept in his pant-leg at Arthur.

It's a wire cutter. Arthur obviously can't reach it with his hands, but Eames is occupying Cooper's attention enough that Arthur can silently ease a shoe off and grasp it with his toes.

"I don't think you realize what a mistake you're making," Cooper says, thick with contempt. "This isn't something you can ever go back on, you understand? Nobody will be willing to work with you ever again. Nobody."

Arthur has managed to take hold of the cutter, and is slowly bending his leg back to bring it to his hand. He has to be careful, not to drop it where he can't see, not to make a sound.

"And also," Cooper says, voice down to a normal level, "how fucking stupid do you think I am?" He walks back swiftly, snatches the cutter from Arthur's hold and throws it down on the ground. *

The gun is back to its previous place, poking at Arthur's temple. Despite the urge to do so, Arthur doesn't close his eyes. He needs to stay sharp, to wait for the next sign from Eames.

"On your knees," Cooper tells Eames, gun unwavering. Eames, because he's an idiot with no sense of self preservation, obeys. Cooper aims the gun at him.

"What are you doing," Arthur says sharply. It's probably the most stupid thing he can do under the circumstances, but realistically he hasn't much of a choice.

It doesn't matter. It's not like he's going to outlive Eames by much, anyway. Cooper keeps his weapon trained on Eames but he spares Arthur an amused glance.

"Look who's suddenly talkative. Don't move," he snaps, although as far as Arthur can tell Eames hasn't budged.

Eames gives him a tight smile. "I'm not the one holding a gun to anyone's head."

"And let's keep it that way, huh?" Cooper gestures with his gun. "I thought I'd let you die armed, Eames. I thought you deserved a little dignity. Guess I was wrong.

"Take your jacket off."

Eames doesn't protest, doesn't even stall, just does what Cooper tells him.

Arthur hisses. He really shouldn't have. Cooper doesn't even takes his eyes off Eames to ask, "Oh, is the boyfriend part real? I love your verisimilitude, really I do." His smirk is the most repulsive thing Arthur has seen, ever.

There are days when Arthur really hates his life. He'd thought he left those behind him with his crummy apartment and the unending debt, but he was apparently mistaken.

At Cooper's orders, Eames dumps weapons on the floor; the gun he keeps in his shoulder holster, a belt knife. "All of them," Cooper says, and Eames produces another gun hidden in the back of his pants.

That's a stupid place to carry a gun, Arthur thinks, mostly to distract himself.

Cooper isn't looking at him. Arthur needs to get his attention, and he needs to keep it by all the means at his disposal. Arthur knows Eames has a thigh holster, too, and he can't give Cooper the chance to think about that. "I have nothing to do with this," he says, aiming for innocence and probably only arriving at panicky.

That's fine, though. Perfectly in character. Arthur wishes it were an act.

"Please," Arthur says, "I didn't do anything wrong. Let me go, I'll do anything." It sickens him to say it, moreso because Eames can hear him, but it's the only remotely possible path to a reprieve. Make Cooper feel contempt for Arthur, and maybe he'll deign to show off his power by letting Arthur go when he clearly doesn't need to.

And then, Arthur can come back with guns blazing and all the C4 in the world.

"Well, when he's asking so nicely," Cooper says, aiming a vicious smile at Eames that sends Arthur's brain into strict oh, shit mode, "I'd hate to turn him down."

Eames makes a noise at that. Arthur very carefully doesn't look at him. "What do you mean," he says. He wishes his voice didn't sound so flat, almost downright robotic. Then again, self preservation is what it is, and Arthur can tell what's coming by the gleam in Cooper's eyes, his hand returning to Arthur's hair.

When we make it out of here, Arthur thinks, I'm getting a buzz cut.

"Look at him," Cooper says, in a horrible twist on fondness that makes Arthur sick to his stomach. "Trying to keep up the cover so hard. Let's see if he's learned a trick or two, huh?"

Arthur feels a familiar blank settling over his mind. This is fine, this is nothing he hasn't done a few dozen times for money anyway. His life is worth that, Eames' is worth exponentially more. He can do this.

Cooper's zipper makes a rusty sound sliding down. Arthur permits himself the luxury of closing his eyes.

There's a loud noise and something splatters hot and wet on Arthur's face. He opens his eyes, licks his lips and tastes metal.

Eames is standing up, gun drawn, his mouth a straight, tight line. Cooper's down, bleeding heavily from his side. Eames takes aim again and shoots, over and over, until the gunshots become the empty 'click' that signals out of ammo.

He stands there for a second, gun in hand, then blinks and mumbles, "Right," as he comes over to cut Arthur loose.

While he's kneeling behind Arthur, footsteps sound at the door. Eames stands up. The slight woman advancing toward them would be a more welcome sight, were she not aiming a gun at Eames.

"Julietta!" Eames spreads his arms, laying the charm so thick Arthur could gag on it. "Lovely to see you - "

"You took my PASIV, Eamesie," Julietta says, low and dangerous. "That's not buddies."

Arthur's beginning to wonder if they wouldn't have been better off with Cooper before deciding that no, they wouldn't be.

"And," Julietta says, "you shot the hired help. I don't like that."

"The hired help," Eames says, in the sharp voice he uses when he has no intention of playing games, "was decidedly rude. The earth is better off without the likes of him."

"Oh. Well, if it's bad manners," Julietta says, with what Arthur takes for obvious sarcasm. Except she walks to kick Cooper in the ribs, hard, so maybe it's not. "I suppose I can't begrudge you that." The look she gives Arthur is all too knowing.

She turns to stick her gun under Eames' jaw, a sight Arthur could really do without witnessing again in the near future. "But I am still minus a PASIV," she breathes into Eames' ear. "What am I to do about that?"

"I know a man," Eames says, voice a little higher than it should be. For Julietta's sake, Arthur hopes it's an act. "Could grab a device off him, no problem." The gun presses closer. Eames gulps. "Free of charge, too, for such loveliness as yourself."

"Oh?" She looks at Eames, appraising, then shakes her head minutely. "Sorry."

She moves her finger to the trigger. Arthur growls. He twists his hands, trying to squirm out of the ropes. He's pretty sure he dislocates his wrist, but that's not really important.

What matters is that Julietta blinks once, twice, then collapses to the floor. The change of angle reveals the dart stuck in her shoulder.

Arthur turns his face to the door, where a man pulls off a ski mask and grimaces.

"Took you long enough," Eames says, sounding far too calm for Arthur's peace of mind.

"Excuse me for stopping to calculate the dosage," the guy grumbles. He pulls out a penknife and starts sawing through Arthur's ropes. "I thought you wanted her alive."

"I still do," Eames says. "She's lovely company when she's not trying to kill me." Then he stops talking, thank God, and kneels next to Arthur, pulling him into a rough bear hug.

"Get a room," the newcomer says, but there's laughter in it. Arthur's hands are free now, so he brings them around Eames. He thinks they'll stay like this for a little while.

Eame's friend comes to stand in front of Arthur. "I'm Yusuf," he says. "I'd offer to shake your hand, but I see they're both otherwise occupied."

"Yeah, sorry," Arthur says, though he isn't at all. He's still pissed, he wants to burn down something huge and expensive, but mostly, he's stupidly grateful to be alive. "I'm Arthur," he says. Then he squeezes Eames' shoulders, because he wants to and doesn't feel the need to explain himself to anyone, himself included.

"I know." Yusuf, to Arthur's annoyance, looks amused. Arthur supposes he has a right to look however he wants, though, considering how he just rescued them and all. "Well, when he's listening again," Yusuf says with a gentle prod to the back of Eames' head, "tell him that this is the last time I come to clean up his messes for him, all right? That's your job now." This with an unsettlingly knowing smile.

For the first time, it occurs to Arthur that Eames has gotten a suspiciously large amount of paperwork done in the few hours he spent away from Arthur. That it should have been quite impossible for him to pull it all off without some help.

He catches Yusuf's gaze and nods, once. Yusuf smiles in approval.

Then Eames lets go. Arthur, to his dismay, has to choke down an urge to grab at him again. Eames rises, dusts himself off, and turns to Yusuf. "Stop talking above my head, you twat."

"Stop laying it in your boyfriend's lap, then," Yusuf says, pleasantly. "Now, can you pretend to be a responsible adult for five minutes and explain to me what the hell you were thinking?"

*

Eames' answer, when he gets around to giving it, basically amounts to: not much.

Arthur drinks. He's been doing that for the last hour and a half, ever since Yusuf dragged them to this hole-in-the-wall where he can interrogate Eames and let Arthur get grimly shitfaced.

It's probably not the best idea, but hey. Extreme circumstances. Someone did just try, among other things, to kill Arthur. He's entitled to a few goddamned drinks.

Eames keeps getting him refills. Arthur's not certain why.

"You can't talk about this," Eames says in a low voice.

Yusuf blinks for a moment, looking nonplussed, then he smacks his own forehead and says, "Eames. I realize that your secret love affair is very exciting to you, but I'm more concerned with how you just left a pile of bodies on our trail."

"Well, 's not our trail any more, is it?" Eames is sullen, slurring a little, possibly because he keeps stealing sips from Arthur's glass. "Not since somebody fucked off to do something they won't even tell us about. Me. Tell me about."

Very kindly, Yusuf says, "I'll forget you said that because you're drunk, obviously high on adrenaline and–" Yusuf peers at Eames' hand where it's holding to the back of Arthur's neck, "possibly oxytocin as well."

"You're a luv," Eames says, and yep, he's drunk.

Although Arthur supposes that he shouldn't cast any stones. If nobody can tell how drunk he is by how he talks, it's only because he can't actually remember how to formulate words right now.

"I don't even know why I talk to you," Yusuf says. "At all."

"Oh, bullcrap," Eames says. "You love me. Or at least you did before you decided to go legit."

"Owning a dream den is hardly legit." Yusuf's voice is as dry as... something. Which is dry. A desert? It rains in deserts sometimes, doesn't it? Yusuf's voice is drier than that.

Eames squints at Yusuf, which Arthur finds inexplicably hilarious. While he snickers to himself, Eames says, "So that's what you were doing," not slurring at all.

Maybe Arthur misjudged his drunkenness. Hey, maybe that means Arthur misjudged his own drunkenness. He decides to try and walk in a straight line to test that. He makes it half a step off the chair before he's crumpled on the floor in an undignified pile. He vaguely flails at Eames until the latter rescues him from the cruelty of gravity.

"I think you should take him home," Yusuf says. Arthur nods agreement into Eames' shoulder.

"I think you're changing the subject, mate." Eames manhandles Arthur so that Arthur's practically sitting in his lap, secured into place by Eames' arms around him. "You can talk. Likely he's too drunk to think right now, let alone listen."

Arthur's pretty sure he ought to resent that. He's too busy cuddling up to Eames, though.

Yusuf's staring at Arthur. "So. Is he?"

Eames snorts. "A double agent? Not that I know. Just possessed of an unusually helpful skill-set." He presses an affectionate kiss to the top of Arthur's head. "Still not the subject, though."

Yusuf spreads his arms. "What is there to say? You know I've been wanting something different for a while now."

"A change in scenery," Eames agrees.

Yusuf rolls his eyes. "A change in the people trying to kill me, more like. It gives me a chance to finish my degree. Why would I say no?"

This rouses Arthur's curiosity. He pokes Eames in the ribs until Eames groans and shakes his shoulder gently. "What?"

"D'gry," Arthur somehow forces out. "Wh't 'n?"

Eames stares at him for a minute before bursting into laughter.

"So much for too drunk to listen," Yusuf says.

"Well, you did stir his academic interest," Eames says, still chuckling. "Chemistry, darling," he says to Arthur, soft and fond enough that Arthur tries to bat at his face to make him knock it off already. "He's working on his doctorate now, aren't you, Yusuf?"

Yusuf looks pained. "Eames. Is the baby talk strictly necessary?"

Eames has the decency to look chagrined.

"If you carry on like this," Yusuf says, "there's not going to be much point in me keeping quiet about this."

Arthur expects Eames to say something cheerful and misleading. So of course Eames sighs and says, "You're right, I know that, and you know that I know. We're just winding down a little, yeah? In trusted company and all that."

"You're making me wish I hadn't earned your trust." Yusuf looks at his watch. "For the third time this week."

It's only then that it occurs to Arthur that they're talking about Eames and his, well, relationship. About – as far as he can tell in this state – keeping it under wraps. Actually, it's probably a good idea. If they're known to be together, they can be used as leverage against each other.

Arthur's just kind of vaguely insulted that Eames mentioned it to Yusuf before they even talked about anything of the sort. As if he thought Arthur would go – whatever, hysteric or something. As if Arthur had asked him for a ring or a promise. As if Arthur had asked him for anything, ever.

He sort of wants to punch Eames, except that he realizes that, at this point, he's more likely to knock himself back to the floor than anything. He settles for biting Eames' shoulder, hard.

Eames yelps. He puts a hand on the back of Arthur's head, more gentle than Arthur probably deserves.

Arthur's sorry already, for biting, for being a liability, for not being able to help Eames when he was held at goddamned gunpoint. His muscles go slack and he relaxes into Eames, shuddering a little. This, Arthur thinks in a sudden burst of clarity, is why I don't drink.

"I think that's my cue to go," Eames says, wry. He grunts, "Up we get," maneuvering Arthur so he's sort of standing, mostly leaning against Eames.

They're making their way out when Yusuf yells at their retreating backs, "And don't think I didn't notice you changed the subject first, you bastard!"

There's something about Eames, Arthur reflects as Eames pours him into the car, that drives people to call him a bastard. Possibly the fact that he is one.

~~

Eames drives the next morning, because Arthur's head wants to kill him. Arthur's halfway in agreement.

It's going to be a while before they reach their destination. They can dawdle now, if they want – Yusuf arranged for Julietta's shipment to people who wanted her to "grace their cells with her presence," as Yusuf put it.

They probably need to talk about... things. Things that Arthur would be able to better define once he's not seeing double. Maybe he should wait until then, but he was never any good at postponing the inevitable.

If he closes his eyes before he talks, it's just because the glare is making his headache worse. "So. We're keeping this –" he gestures between himself and Eames – "a secret?"

"It's a risk, in this line of work," Eames says, which isn't actually an answer. Quietly, he adds, "I don't really want to."

That makes Arthur's mind up for him, for the both of them. "But we have to."

Eames wants open acknowledgement, and that's too dangerous for them right now. The last thing Arthur should do is bring his own misgivings to the table.

"And so we will," Eames says.

Arthur is grateful for the silence, then, nothing but Eames' steady breaths echoing in the car.

He may have been dozing a little when out of nowhere, Eames says, "We had a bit of a rough awakening, back there." Eames doesn't look at Arthur, doesn't ask him anything at all.

Arthur says, "I'm fine," anyway.

Eames nods. "All right." Then he looks at Arthur, ignoring Arthur's furious _eyes on the road, you idiot_ gestures. "If that changes and you don't tell me..."

He won't look away from Arthur until, frantic because they're on the goddamned highway and Eames won't look where they're going, Arthur snaps, "I will! Fine!"

Eames looks away, thank God, and Arthur lets out a long breath. "I did not survive a fucking armed madman to die in a car accident, fuck you very much."

"Very much indeed," Eames says, but it's only an automatic response. Arthur can tell.

 _There goes the comfortable out of comfortable silence_ , Arthur thinks, irked.

By the time they reach LA they're both tired, cranky, and not above taking it out on each other.

"I told you to turn left," Arthur snaps. "You know? That direction, opposite of right?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Eames says, "I must have been mislead by remembering that you can't read a bloody map."

"Hey," Arthur says feelingly. _You're wrong one goddamned time_ , he thinks, and doesn't bother finishing the thought.

Eames sighs and takes a hand off the wheel – despite Arthur's repeated pointed remarks on the subject – to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I believe we need a break."

When Arthur looks at him, Eames' eyes have a too-tight look to them, and the set of his mouth is entirely too unhappy for Arthur's peace of mind. _Way to go, Arthur,_ he thinks, a little snide.

The situation isn't helped by the fact that Arthur hates LA pretty much at first sight. It's dirty, it's crowded and yet – paradoxically – impossible to navigate without a car. Which is something Arthur may have access to now, but he has not forgotten what it's like to depend on the mercies of public transportation, such as they are.

Then again, it doesn't appear that Eames likes it much better, judging by the disfavoring look Eames grants the scenery at large. But maybe that's because the scenery consists mainly of a traffic jam of epic proportions.

When they reach the next place they can safely stop at – a gas station, no surprises there – Arthur practically drags Eames out of the car, buys them both coffee, and sits them down.

"Right," Arthur says. "Now let's talk about what we're going to do."

Eames gives Arthur a look that proclaims clearly that one of them is being spectacularly slow, and it isn't Eames. "We give Cobb the PASIV, I get my lessons, and we're off to a tropic beach somewhere." The corner of Eames' mouth twists unpleasantly. "Unless you've decided you'd rather – "

"I'm not letting you finish that sentence," Arthur says firmly. "Consider it a favor. Now, what I meant to ask is, what are you going to tell Cobb about me?" He blinks, thinking rapidly, and backpedals. "I mean, if you want me to stay out of the picture – "

"Sorry for interjecting, but consider this to be repaying the favor," Eames says, and that's a tone of voice Arthur much prefers, thank you. "At any rate, why would I need to tell him anything? You're my associate, case closed."

"He struck up a deal with you," Arthur points out. "Not with some associate he doesn't even know."

"You're making that word sound dirty," Eames says. "Have I mentioned I like that about you?"

Arthur smothers a small smile. "Eames, try to make sense, okay? Just for a few minutes. We go in, we give Cobb the goods, and what do we tell him?"

The look Eames gives him then is penetrating. "Why don't you just tell me what you're driving at, instead?"

To his dismay, it isn't until that moment that Arthur realizes he's been driving at anything at all. It takes him another minute to figure out what that is. When he does, Arthur sort of wishes he could just swallow this entire conversation back and ignore it, because he has a feeling Eames isn't going to like this. "You said Cobb was going to teach you."

Eames nods.

"I want him to teach me, too." Arthur winces at that, internally. He doesn't really have a right to ask. On the other hand, realistically, Eames wouldn't have let up until Arthur up and said it. "It's not your obligation to convince him to or anything. But you did want to know."

"Arthur," Eames says, slowly. "Arthur, that's bloody brilliant."

"Hey." That's Arthur's best warning tone, right there. "No mocking."

"I'm not. I'm completely and utterly serious." Eames' eyes are shining, looking at Arthur like he made a discovery, like he did something right. "That's perfect, that is. We'll sell you to Cobb as a man right out of the army, all hush-hush, looking to get into dreamsharing. I'll cede the training portion of the pay to you, and we have it made." He's grinning now, looking completely demented. It's not a bad look on him. "I did say a life of crime, but nobody said it has to be conventional."

"Nobody says it can't be, either," Arthur says, wary. "And like hell you're ceding your share. Fifty-fifty or nothing."

A little enthusiasm goes out of Eames at that, and Arthur curses himself for being – whatever it is that knocked the wind out of Eames' sails. "In his various idiocies, there's one thing Cooper was right about." Eames sounds... almost cautious, as if he's afraid of Arthur's response. "A lot of people won't work with me now."

"Because of me," Arthur says, for clarification's sake.

"Mostly because of Julietta. Partially because of you." Eames' gaze is steady, unapologetic. Arthur meets it. "I'd've been looking for greener pastures, anyway. If we can sell it to Cobb like that, the odds aren't bad that he'll take us on."

They head back to the car and Arthur takes a good look at Eames. _There's something you're not telling me_ , he thinks.

He'll let it go, though. For now.

~~

Cobb is not at all what Arthur expected.

For one thing, he did not expect Dominic Cobb, leading authority in a field that's mostly secret and only semi-legal, to be an aging grad student with a toddler in his arms.

"Be quiet," Cobb stage-whispers at them. "We only just got her to sleep."

Bemused, Arthur steps in behind Eames. He's vaguely mortified on behalf of this child's mother, wherever she is. Apparently Cobb has no problems admitting hardened criminals into the house where his children sleep.

Granted, neither of them are going to do anything on purpose to endanger anyone, but how does Cobb know that?

Once Cobb has his daughter tucked safely away, though, something in his face changes. There's something about him, a magnetic pull that Arthur's aware of even if he doesn't feel particularly drawn by it. A quick look at Eames convinces Arthur that he's not wrong about this: Cobb is a man with significant charisma. This is not a person who lacks for grant money.

"Arthur, Dominic Cobb; Mr. Cobb, my associate, Arthur." Eames introduces them. Turning to Cobb, he says, "Arthur is interested in learning more about the nature of dreams. He has a few not-inconsiderable skills that he is willing to put at your service to show his gratitude for our use of your time."

And there it is, whatever Eames wasn't telling. Arthur would feel less comfortable about this if he weren't almost certain that by skills Eames means shooting people and possibly setting things on fire. Arthur can work with that.

What Cobb could want to be set on fire, though, remains to be seen.

~~

Dreaming is also not at all what Arthur expected, but whereas with Cobb his initial response was caution, with dreaming it's: fuck, what is that, can I do it again.

"Holy shit," Arthur says, panting, just awake and unguarded. "That was better than sex."

Cobb laughs. "That's not actually the first time I see someone react to it like that." Behind Cobb's back, Eames is pouting at Arthur, but his face is blank by the time Cobb turns to look at him.

"What do you think?" Cobb asks.

"Oh, not bad," Eames says airily. "Not bad at all."

Arthur takes advantage of Cobb's turned back to mouth _You loved it_ at Eames. Only the careful twitch of Eames' hand indicates that he even noticed Arthur's commentary.

"Sure," Cobb says, dryly, and Arthur feels a little vindicated.

Cobb turns back to Arthur. "I have to say, you're pretty impressive for someone who's new to this. People generally can't get dreamscapes this stable without previous experience. Do you have any architectural training?"

"Half a degree in structural engineering," Arthur confesses. Cobb's smile grows, and maybe Arthur's starting to feel the effects of his charisma, just a little.

"Excellent," Cobb says. He claps a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Come back tomorrow. My wife will be here, she'll want to meet you."

Eames is uncharacteristically silent after they leave. Arthur's running damage control scenarios in his head for whatever might be wrong with Eames this time.

Maybe he's annoyed that Arthur got more out of today's lesson than he did. If so, Arthur will remind him that today was just the first, that Eames is bound to catch up to whatever advantage Arthur's previous schooling has granted him soon.

If it's anything else... well, frankly Arthur has no idea what else it could be. Eames isn't likely to get upset that Arthur's learning something new, even if it is a little at his expense. Eames has never begrudged him something like that.

Then again, never, in their case, amounts to not in three days. What the hell does Arthur know, anyway?

So Arthur decides to can his mental scenarios and to go instead for the novel approach of asking Eames what the hell is up.

It turns out that he doesn't even has to ask. All Arthur does is slant a look at Eames before Eames sighs with gusto and says, "I'm not going to be able to learn anything useful here. I can tell."

At this, Arthur's carefully prepared speech about how Eames will catch up to him (God, how awfully condescending that sounds) evaporates. Arthur opens his mouth, shuts it, then tentatively says, "You should at least try meeting his wife."

Eames lets out a bitter chuckle. "Mallorie Cobb has a PhD in civil engineering. I'm fairly certain everything she has to teach involves – " Eames shudders dramatically, "– differential equations. Which by no means should stop you from learning from her, love, but Cobb was my best shot and I don't understand anything he has to say, either."

This does not make sense to Arthur . "What are you talking about? We didn't even get to anything theoretical. All we did was –"

"See this bit, Arthur?" Eames says in a perfect imitation of Cobb. "See how it contributes to the structural integrity?" In Arthur's voice he says, "Yes, yes, obviously, so you need to have a supporting system, I see," and in his own voice, "well, I bloody don't."

Arthur considers this. "Well, I suppose that's my fault," he says. "Got a little carried away, I guess. You could come tomorrow without me – "

"And have Mr. and Dr. Cobb frowning and asking me why you aren't there," Eames says, darkly.

Arthur stops walking, stands still where he is. Eames walks another two steps before noticing, then stops and turns sharply, brow creasing. "Arthur?"

In a calm, flat voice, Arthur says, "I don't care if I have a career in stealing secrets. I don't care if I have a career as an engineer or a thief or a fucking street sweeper." He walks the two steps to where Eames is standing. "I agreed to run away with you. You never specified running where, and I never asked. That should tell you something."

Thank God that Eames isn't actually as stupid as he occasionally likes to make himself out to be, because he doesn't say anything, just nods.

"If you want to do this," Arthur says, "we're doing this. If you can't learn from the Cobbs, we'll find some other way. If you want to walk away from this, go back to robbing banks or whatever it is you did before, we can do that. But you're not going to get all passive-aggressive on my ass because you think I'm running off somewhere. You don't get to do that. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly," Eames whispers, and kisses him, deep and sound and so good it makes Arthur's toes curl.

Once they're finished – and it's a while before they are – Arthur adjusts his tie and says, "All right. I'm thinking dinner, then sleep."

Eames' eyebrows quirk up. "Sleep?"

Arthur smiles. "For a certain value thereof."

~~

Dinner is good. The food is at least passable, and – wonder of wonders – he and Eames have been able, for once today, to pass a whole hour without a fight breaking out.

So, obviously, Eames would put down his wine glass and say, "I may have an idea," in a tone of voice conveying _you're not going to like this_.

That tone of voice, Arthur decides a minute later, is completely correct. In all honesty, Arthur doesn't mean to let skepticism color his voice when he repeats, "You're going to learn from Yusuf."

Eames' eyebrows rise. "Is there a problem I'm not aware of with that sentence?"

Arthur glances around and lowers his voice. "Mainly the fact that you say _I_. Are you seriously planning a solo trip to Kenya right now?"

"You don't have to come along," Eames says, then as Arthur prepares to explode because – hello, has Eames been listening to him today? At all? – he raises his hands and says, "hear me out. Now that I know where he is, let's say I've put together a few other things I know. Yusuf doesn't actually possess the skills I'm thinking of learning, but he can refer me to people who do."

"So you want to go," Arthur says, numb. "And you want me to stay."

Eames looks pained. "Not like that, darling," and that snaps Arthur out of his haze of self pity sharply enough to make him say, "No, you're right. I'm sorry. It's the best – "

He's cut off by nothing more than Eames looking at him, patient. "And then you wonder why I think you might not want to stick around."

It's been a long day. Arthur's tired. "Give me a fucking break, Eames, okay? What do you want from me?"

"Everything," Eames says, and it's so obviously honest that it takes Arthur's breath away. "But for a start I'd like both of us to stay alive to enjoy it, and for the next thing we need something to do. If you stay here and I go – for two weeks, Arthur, I would've gotten to that if you'd let me finish a bloody sentence – we're going to have enough skills, between us, to do anything we want."

An idea is clicking together in Arthur's brain. "And maybe," he says, slowly, "give us a chance to cool down a little so we're not," he gestures between them, "this obvious."

Eames snorts. "If you're hoping for that, move along. Separation at this state is only likely to make it worse."

"I don't know if hoping is the right word," Arthur says, truthfully.

Eames gives him a conspiratorial smile. "Still, it'll give you a chance to come into your own as a criminal. Give you some space to do your own thing. Can't be bad for you."

"Can't it?" Arthur says, but it's mostly rhetorical. He downs the rest of his wine and starts planning.

~~

Among Arthur's myriad lists is a fast-growing one he tentatively titles Things Eames Likes, and it ranges from preferences in coffee (one cream, two sugars) to, well, preferences in Arthur.

It's mostly the latter, to be honest.

So, with this list firmly in mind, Arthur shoves Eames on the bed, not quite gently. "Stay," he says, squirming out of his clothes. "No, nevermind, take your clothes off first. Then stay."

"I love it when you're decisive," Eames says.

Arthur snorts. "No points for sarcasm." He's naked now, so he moves to the bed, waits until Eames finishes struggling with his socks, and pushes him to lie flat on his back. He kneels, straddling Eames' broad shoulders, maybe purring a little at the stretch.

Eames' hands settle on his ass as if magnetically guided there. Arthur leans into them, just a little, not enough to upset his balance.

He knows he's smiling like a cat who got the cream, the canary _and_ a particularly fat mouse, but he can't help it. And Eames isn't looking any less smug, anyway.

That triggers one of those difficult life decisions, because Arthur can't look at Eames smiling like that and not want to kiss him. On the other hand, he's got a plan and he doesn't like to be derailed.

Arthur stiffens his resolve. Kissing can be arranged later. Kissing will be arranged. For now, he draws a line up his thigh with a finger. Eames' eyes follow him, hungry.

"Lick me," Arthur says, and he doesn't even finish the sentence before Eames' mouth is on the tender skin of his inner thigh, sucking. Arthur makes no pretense of stoicism, doesn't even try to hold back the noises that pour out of him, trusting Eames' hands to hold him up while he bucks into Eames' mouth.

Eames looks up at him through his eyelashes, and Arthur bites back a curse. He wants Eames to suck him off, wants it bad, but goddamnit, that's not the plan.

Still, when Eames mouths the underside of Arthur's cock, eyebrows quirked in question, Arthur sighs and says, "Don't let me come."

Eames hums agreement and takes Arthur in.

Arthur's eyes squeeze shut of their own accord. Eames is holding him in place now, not letting him move as he holds Arthur in his mouth, hardly sucking at all, only licking cursorily.

"Eames," Arthur pants. "Fuck – "

But that reminds him. He groans and pulls away, not allowing himself the merest glance down at Eames' mouth, because if he has to even think about those obscene lips he'll shoot there and then.

He gets off the bed. Eames makes a quizzical sound, which Arthur ignores for the moment, focusing his attention on hunting through Eames' bag until he finds –

Ah. There it is.

He crawls back on the bed, kissing Eames soundly before sitting up and trying to puzzle out the cock-ring.

"Maybe you should put it on," Arthur says, after a moment. "This is more complicated than it looks."

Eames snorts. "Well, I'd hate for you to damage your equipment by mistake."

As he reaches for it, Arthur bats at his hand. "It's going on you," he informs Eames.

"Is it now." Eames is suspiciously failing to sound dismayed even in the slightest.

"Yep." Right, it goes like that. Arthur smothers a victorious cry and turns to Eames. "Hold yourself in for a minute, okay?"

"Despite your insinuations, I'm perfectly capable of – hnng," Eames says as Arthur licks his cock, slow and teasing.

Putting the ring on a fully hard cock isn't optimal, but Arthur manages, even if Eames does groan in a not-entirely-positive way about it.

"Think of it as helping you last," Arthur says, ruthlessly clicking the straps shut on the tightest setting.

"Ungh," Eames – well, not says, not exactly. He recovers, though, enough to say, "Yes, darling, that's what it does," and he's cut off, yelping when Arthur squeezes his dick a little too hard.

Arthur would be worried about hurting him, except that all present evidence shows that Eames thinks it's adorable when Arthur inflicts pain on people, Eames included. He deserves this.

"Quiet, you," Arthur says, more than a little fond. "Unless you want to tell me where the lube is."

It's in Eames' pocket. Again. Honestly, that man is incorrigible.

Arthur looks at Eames, hesitates, then puts the lube on the bedside table. He'll want it later, but now...

He nudges Eames to spread his legs and tries hard not to be nervous. Then he thinks, fine, just do this, and bends to lick into Eames.

Eames gasps, and his legs shudder with an effort not to move. Arthur doesn't think he's very good at this – no experience, after all, plus he was always better with his hands – but if Eames shares this assessment, no one could know from how he's cursing now.

It's not as weird as Arthur thought it would be, really. It's just Eames, and it's not like Arthur's ever had a problem licking him. He tastes good, even here, the skin inside smooth and, oddly, almost slick against Arthur's tongue.

This is a muscle, too, Arthur thinks. It encourages him somewhat, and he pushes his tongue in with greater force. This makes Eames cry out, and Arthur smiles a little, as much as he can under the circumstances.

He still feels some relief when he decides it's time to switch tactics, sitting up and pushing two slicked fingers into Eames. Eames takes them beautifully, back arching and head thrown back, and Arthur's really smiling now. This, he knows how to do.

Arthur puts on the condom. He's not gentle pushing into Eames, and judging by Eames' reaction that's not at all a bad thing. Eames is grabbing his ass, his shoulder, putting a hand on Arthur's lower back and pressing until Arthur sinks that last half-inch in.

"Oh, fuck," Eames says, small and stunned. Arthur grins and grinds against him just to see his eyes snap shut, his mouth opening on a silent moan.

This is what he's been looking forward to.

He lowers his mouth to Eames' ear. He's pretty certain Eames is listening, for all that he looks completely out of it. "You love this, don't you."

Eames hisses. Arthur laughs. This, another day, would be the part where Eames comes all over both of them, but the cock-ring seems to be doing its job well. Arthur thrusts, pulling out and slamming back in, and Eames whines.

"You're going to miss it so bad, when you're gone." Arthur's voice not exactly steady now, but it's evidently getting the point across. "You're going to look at all the pretty boys and girls, and then you'll go to your room and jerk off thinking about me, because you're mine and nobody else is allowed to touch you."

Eames has stopped making sounds now, mouth a continuously open O, as if it's taking all the air in the room just to let him breathe. He's listening, all right.

Arthur's fucking him hard now, not pulling any stops as he's going. "And you'll think of me, and you'll know that I'm here jerking myself off because nobody but you can touch me, I don't want them to –"

Eames' hands tighten painfully around Arthur's shoulder, and he mouths, "Please."

Arthur kneels up, unfastening the cock-ring with shaking hands, wrapping one around Eames' dick as it's let loose. "I want you to come for me," he says, and Eames barely even waits for him to start saying that before he goes off, thrashing and holding onto Arthur hard enough to bruis. Arthur hopes it bruises, wants a physical reminder of this that he can press his fingers into tomorrow and think, _This is mine. This is for me._

After that, orgasm is very nearly an afterthought. Eames is dead weight under him, holding Arthur loosely as he thrusts and cries and comes, kissing his neck softly until Arthur shivers and flops down on him, feeling more than halfway liquefied.

Eames' returning awareness is evident as his hands start sliding through Arthur's hair, just ghosting over his scalp at first then growing more firm until Arthur has no choice but to butt his head into Eames' hands and purr.

He kisses Eames, slow and thorough. He should be getting up and finding something to clean them up with, but he doesn't feel like it. He feels like – well, if what he feels like is lying here and being petted then he damn well will.

But Eames is nudging him off, gentle at first then more insistent. Arthur can't really mind, though, since as soon as he's on his back Eames' hands are all over him, as if he needs to memorize Arthur by touch.

Arthur hates to stop him, but he needs to get rid of the condom before things get sticky and unpleasant. He fends Eames off momentarily, gets the condom off, ties it and throws it neatly into the trashcan. Score.

Eames is leaning on his elbow and giving Arthur a look he can't quite make sense of.

Arthur lies back and closes his eyes, shifting a little closer to Eames in the process. "What?"

Rather than answer, Eames puts his head on Arthur's stomach, turning a little to kiss just below his navel. Arthur sees no reason to object to this, so he says nothing as Eames carries on, kissing the jut of Arthur's hip bone, the crease that marks the top of his thigh.

Arthur's about to protest when Eames puts his mouth on his dick, but the he's careful enough that it's not unpleasant. Just a gentle, wet warmth, right there over him.

"Eames. What are you trying to do?"

Eames lets go and says, "Nothing in particular. Is it bothering you?"

Well, to be honest, "No," Arthur says. "It's fine."

"Good." Eames returns to his previous position. Arthur opens his eyes a little.

Eames doesn't look turned on. He looks like he's concentrating, frowning a little. Focused. Arthur thinks back to earlier and thinks, _Huh_.

If Eames wants to try and memorize him by taste (if that's what Eames is doing, it's not like Arthur can claim to understand this guy or anything), well, why the hell not.

Pretty relaxing, actually, Arthur thinks, drowsing. He puts a hand over the top of Eames' head, just to telegraph general approval. Eames takes the hand in his and squeezes.

"Yeah," Arthur mumbles. It's possible he starts snoring before Eames pulls away.

~~

"It's a shame I didn't get to meet your Mr. Eames," Mal tells Arthur a week later.

Arthur bites back a reply along the lines of _He isn't my anything_ , because it would be protesting too much, and untrue besides. He sidesteps the issue neatly: "It's a shame he didn't get to meet you."

Arthur means it. Whatever Eames could have expected of Mallorie Cobb, Brilliant Academic – well, whatever that is, it's not Mal. Mal took one good look at Arthur, burst into completely unladylike laughter, and pulled him under her wing without further ceremony.

It's been confusing the hell out of Dom. Arthur tries not to enjoy that too much.

To be completely honest, Arthur's having the time of his life. The theory of dream-sharing is fascinating, and he can't actually decide whether he likes Cobb's view of it (structured and complex and beautifully crafted) better, or Mal's.

He's leaning toward the latter, though. Mal caught his heart, a little, with impossible angles and inverted spaces, flashes of color where one least expects them, symbolism in place of realism. It seems like the more correct approach.

Arthur's building every day, now. He doesn't even have time to miss Eames.

Except when he's back to his hotel room, alone, staring at the ceiling and thinking about what a big, stinking liar he is.

He ought not to miss Eames. It's only a stupid infatuation, it can't be more than that. He's known Eames a grand sum of – what, three months? – out of which he only spent with Eames a total of –

Oh, screw the math, says a voice inside Arthur's head that sounds unaccountably like Mal. He hasn't known her nearly long enough for that to happen, either, but apparently that doesn't stop him now. You're in love. Live with it.

Living, Arthur thinks, rather sour, is exactly what's going to be our biggest problem.

Now that he's removed from Eames' distracting presence, all sorts of little thoughts come to niggle at him. Mainly questions along the lines of _Have you gone insane? What's happening to your life? Are you sure you're not, right now, hallucinating this?_

Because it's too good, that's the problem. Hell, Arthur can't even bring himself to not trust Eames. The logical thing to do, now, would be to assume that Eames is out there running away, forgetting Arthur and doing his own thing, never to come back. But Arthur's brain refuses to even go there. On the scale of paranoid scenarios, _Eames will leave me_ is right out there with _Martians will conquer the Earth and I'll be forced to form a resistance movement_.

Fuck, even in that scenario, Arthur's imagining Eames as his second in command.

He knows he's letting too much slip to Mal, too. For all that Cobb's charming and confident, it's Mal around who Arthur has trouble keeping his mouth shut. Perhaps because she sees things, where Cobb – not unlike many other charismatic people Arthur met, come to think of it – is a little too focused on himself, on his own little world that's made of Mal and the kids and the nature of dreams.

It's not a bad place, actually. Arthur's been living there for a week now, and except for the fact that he's pining like a goddamned teenager, he's pretty happy.

There's a small consolation, at least, in that Eames doesn't seem to be taking it any better than Arthur. They can't call each other (which is a shame, Arthur has some very specific ideas regarding phone sex) but Eames sends him emails at an average frequency of two every three hours. It's like Eames doesn't know how to keep himself occupied anymore.

Arthur would mock him for that, except that whenever an hour passes without a ding! from his WebMail Notifier, he starts fretting.

Mal sees him sneaking looks at his iPhone (the new one, the first thing he bought for himself with Eames' – with their money). Of course she does. Mal sees everything.

"Are you concerned about business opportunities?" she inquires in a sweet voice that communicates very clearly like hell you are.

"Important businessman," Arthur says, with the straightest face he can manage. "That's me, all right."

It makes her laugh, which isn't difficult, yet is still almost embarrassingly rewarding.

But then there's an incoming call and Arthur nearly drops his phone, which makes Mal roar with laughter.

"Oh, fuck off," Arthur grumbles good-naturedly. "Yeah?"

"And here I'd thought you'd be missing me," Eames drawled on the other side.

"I was talking to Mal, asshole," Arthur says, trying to rein in the fondness in his voice with medium success. "Mallorie Cobb," he tacks on as an afterthought.

From across continents, he can hear Eames' eyebrows rise. "I didn't think a week would be long enough to get you on profanity terms with her. I'm starting to regret not staying to make her acquaintance after all."

"You're probably right about that," Arthur says. "How come you're calling? I thought – " At the last moment, Arthur switches, "the reception was bad where you are," for _we agreed it was too dangerous_.

"Well, I'm no longer there, am I?" Eames says and Arthur rolls his eyes a little because God, not the stupid fake-cheer again, Arthur detests that. "Back on your native shores and all that."

"I hear a pun in there," Arthur says by way of proper notification. "If it comes out, I'll strangle it with your intestines. Just a friendly warning."

"Never would have occurred to me," Eames says happily. Arthur smiles a little. That's much better.

"So where are you? Do we have a job?" It only occurs to Arthur then that he might want to have this conversation where Mal can't hear him. He could move away now, his last line was a pretty good none-of-your-business indicator. "Uh, wait a minute."

He aims a terse smile at Mal as he nods towards the door. She makes a _go on_ gesture. Arthur goes to stand on the Cobbs' porch, closing the door carefully behind him.

After he's settled there, he says, "All right. So what's next?"

"I'm in San Fransisco," Eames says. "Care to join me?"

Well, obviously Arthur wants to. It's just, "You've finished already?" He lets a tinge of caution color his voice. No point in running back and forth between jobs and training.

"I did. You can stay longer with the Cobbs, if you don't feel properly educated yet." Eames doesn't sound accusing or distant, not even the horribly manufactured matter-of-fact thing he does. He sounds a little tentative, maybe, but neutral otherwise.

Huh, it looks like they're making a little progress there, at least. Arthur rewards it by not telling Eames he's an idiot, although he is, a little. "No. I'll meet you there tomorrow."

Eames sighs in relief. Arthur represses the huff of laughter that wants out. They're both so ridiculous, honestly.

"Yeah," Arthur says, trying for brief and concise and likely missing by a mile. "See you there."


End file.
